I need a doctor
by My Fandoms Rule Me
Summary: Based on the song: I need a doctor by Eminem. Sherlock is on the run slowly and steadily destroying Moriarty's criminal web while John is still in London, mourning for his consulting detective. Memories and nightmare haunt both Sherlock and John, as they try to overcome their situations. Pre-slash.Rated T because, c'mon people it's the Rap God! Sorry, I suck at summaries.


**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock or the song, I need a doctor by Eminem.I'm not gaining any money from this work of fiction. Please forgive the grammatical mistakes because this fiction in unbeta'd and English is not my first language.**

**A/N- Congratulations to Benedict Cumberbatch and Sophie Hunter on getting engaged!Beware, I might gatecrash your wedding! :P**

**To my fellow members of "Cumber Collective", we should be happy for Ben, after all, he has found true love like he always wanted :').**

**A/N 2-The lyrics and a few dialogues from the song and show respectively are not mine. Just been borrowed for this teensy fic.**

**Anyways, guys I worked HARD. Really Hard, to write this fic. Matching up the lyrics with scenes is very difficult when the people to be matched are Emimen and Sherlock. And also the fact that I'm a teenager with exams knocking at my door. But I enjoyed it quite a lot and will really appreciate it if you could review. Enjoy!**

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><p>"<em><strong>I'm about to lose my mind<br>You've been gone for so long, I'm running out of time  
>I need a doctor, call me a doctor<br>I need a doctor, doctor to bring me back to life."**_

Another unknown landscape. Drifting nameless people. No matter how much he tried to end it, Moriarty's network seemed to stretch on even after each job done. It was a voyage through what seemed like an unending hell.

Each and every moment he had to remain conscious; every nerve on his body tense.

A warm cup of tea, a comfortable red jumper. All of it was just a dream helping him survive this nightmare.

This horrible, extremely real nightmare.

He looked at the mirror beside, while tending to a deep wound on his left shoulder. Maybe it would leave a similar scar to his doctor's. As he observed himself in the mirror, he saw a man completely different to the consulting detective in 221B Baker Street.

The consulting detective had a confident aura about him; this man shook and shivered as the cool night air blew in.

The consulting detective could trust his own deductions; this man was cautious and alert every second, not trusting anything.

The consulting detective had a true home, a caring landlady and most importantly the most loyal friend in the whole world to sustain him; this man only had a possibility of a certain future to sustain himself.

Sherlock gently lowered himself in the dank smelly motel bed. He was in desperate need of a doctor to tend to his wounds. Both mental and physical.

_His doctor._

_*/*/*/*/*/*/*_

The blonde, blue eyed man sat on the dusty armchair of 221B Baker Street as the sunlight flooded in through the window, illuminating the whole flat. His hadn't slept all night unable to remove his eyes from a violin set beside the table of the opposite armchair. A ghostly tune here and there had haunted the man whose sleeplessness was clearly evident in the bags under his eyes.

An old woman, carrying a tray of biscuits and tea entered the room. She placed it next to the man, eyes tearing up in the sight of the vacant look at the doctor's eyes. Giving him a kiss on the forehead, she sprinted out of the room before the tears cascaded down her cheeks.

John remained unaware of Mrs. Hudson's brief presence the entire time. He thought of all the times people and ... _Sherlock_ _himself,_ had called John's Sherlock very own doctor.

How wrong they and even _he _had been.

Because it was obvious to John that the real doctor in their flat was Sherlock Holmes. The apparent 'sociopath' had been the one to cure John's psychosomatic limp and eventually his loneliness. With Sherlock, John had once again truly lived, had felt the blood pumping through his veins, and had experienced 'the thrill of the chase.'

Now , with Sherlock gone... there was nothing to fill up the palpable void in his life.

Without _his doctor,_ John Watson was losing his mind.

He was dying.

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><p>"<em><strong>...<strong>__** Doubt starting to creep in, everyday is just so gray and black"**_

Sherlock groaned as he sat in the dark alleyway with the rain pouring in on around him. His body wanted to lie near the trash bin and stay there forever but the throbbing pain on his back from all the deep cuts forced him to sit without any support. The jacket he had found along the road, (probably a thrown away one; the chain wasn't working and the left sleeve was torn), was sticking to his bloody back, stinging and making it itch. As the raindrops (it possibly contained some percent of acid in it too; there are factories producing poisonous gas all over the area) trickled down his body, Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from tearing up. Doubts started rising in his mind.

Would he ever feel the London air again?

Would he ever be staring up the ceiling of 221B again, as he used to sleepless nights?

Would he ever see Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and most importantly John again?

John, with his absurd jumpers and a penchant for tea and biscuits. John, with his warm smile and bright blue eyes. John, the only best friend, Sherlock had ever had in his life.

Shivering in the cold rain Sherlock put his head between knees and hugged them; sobbing for a life he once didn't even care for.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*

John sat in the hospital canteen slurping his way through the bland soup and eating the flavorless food that was usually made for the patients and their attendants. He was a reading a medical journal, not paying attention to the food. Not that it was worth paying attention to. He would've eaten in a restaurant but he hadn't gone to work for weeks and didn't have enough money to afford it, so free hospital food it was.

"Hey. Mind if I sit here?"

John nodded, not looking up to see who it was. He rarely talked to his co-workers nowadays. After a few silent moments, broken occasionally when John slurped up his soup noisily (it was a habit he had picked up as a child and had never been able to let go. He had started it because it drove Harriet up the wall) when his lunch mate cleared her throat loudly. John looked up at her, raising his eyebrows. The nurse was narrowing her eyes at him.

"You're John Watson, aren't you? The one that used to live with that detective that committed suicide."

John's jaw tightened. "Yeah."

"He was a fraud, wasn't he?"

John abruptly stood up from the table, looked at her coldly and with his voice trembling in anger said," _He_ was not a fraud. He was _**never**_ a fraud. Sherlock Holmes was ten times the human you can ever be. He was more than any of you. Now if you'll excuse me, I don't want to waste my time, trying to argue futilely with insensitive idiots such as yourself!" John walked away, limping slightly, fury evident in his eyes.

It was almost a daily occurrence for John now. Strangers would say something maliciously about Sherlock to John, John would defend him and walk away in anger. He knew people wondered why he defended the man; he was just a flatmate of John.

But John will always defend him.

Because he will always believe in Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><em><strong>"...Hope, I just need a ray of that<br>'Cause no one see's my vision when I play it for 'em  
>They just say it's whack, they don't know what dope is<br>And I don't know if I was awake or asleep when I wrote this  
>All I know is you came to me when I was at my lowest<strong>_

_**You picked me up, breathing life in me, I owe my life to you  
>but for the life of me, I don't see why you don't see like I do..."<strong>__**  
><strong>_

There were moments when Sherlock just wanted to give up. There was so many times his heart almost stopped beating. But the light in the end of tunnel kept him awake.

Moriarty's network was just like him. Crooked, deceitful and insane. Weaving in and out of it, tearing its threads was not easy. Like a spiders web once in, it was difficult to get out of. Once or twice, Mycroft's people had intervened and barely managed to get him out alive.

Today, as the sun shone in through the motel window, Sherlock stood beside it soaking up the sun's warmth. He looked out at the scenery though not really seeing anything. He was recalling the dream he had the previous night.

'"_Long time, no see, Sherlock."_

Sherlock turned around, frowning in confusion. "John?"

John smiled, leaning slightly on his cane. Sherlock rushed forward his hands reaching to grab John in a tight hug. John however stepped back. The consulting detective froze his hands still extended towards the doctor.

"_You're injured Sherlock. Maybe you should take it slow. Lie down a bit."_

_Before Sherlock could protest he found himself lying on a bed. His own bed back in 221B. His fingers wove through the sheets bunching it up and smoothing it again. He closed his eyes breathing in the familiar air. A wet cloth was pressed to his forehead. He opened his eyes to see Mrs. Hudson sitting beside him tending to his wounds with a motherly smile on his face. With a warm voice she said, "Rest dear. You're home." Sherlock mutely nodded, feeling relief. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Molly and Lestrade and of course Billy the skull on the mantelpiece. _

"_I thought you took, Billy." He addressed Mrs. Hudson. She gave him a kiss on his somewhat wet forehead and said," Well, Billy wanted to welcome you back. So I brought him back."_

"But I remember you throwing him in a bin?"

_This time Molly replied. "But everything is possible in a dream, Sherlock." She had a sad look in her eyes. Lestrade sat on a chair, with his arms folded. "You've to wake up now, Sherlock. Enough rest." His tone suspiciously sounded like Mycroft. _

_Sherlock looked away from them, staring at the doorway. "But I want to meet John before I do. Just one last time." But as everything started to fade, he heard John's faint voice, "__**Once more miracle, Sherlock for me. Don't be... dead. Would y...Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.**__"' (1)  
><em>

Sherlock blinked and turned away from the window. Putting on his clothes, he got ready for a new day. A new mission. And hopefully, for one more step closer to home.

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><p>"<em><strong>...Demons fightin' you, it's dark<br>Let me turn on the lights and brighten me and enlighten you..."**_

It seemed to Sherlock, that not only was he fighting Moriarty's dirty web, each and every day but also himself.

His mind palace, the only place he ever felt happy and contented was slowly opening certain doors that brought on what haunted him.

The memory of Redbeard being put down came to him yet instead of his late beloved dog and fellow pirate, it was his doctor and then inspector and his landlady and all other people who actually meant something... Dead. Lying broken on the ground, blood flowing out their mouth and all limbs pointing at awkward angles.

He ran around his mind palace, horrified, looking for refuge but those memori... _NO! Not memories just imagination, albeit a vivid one. Very vivid one, _chased him everywhere.

So he had to retreat to the real world to suffer his transport's pain. It seemed there was nothing for him to feel safe in.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*

"SHERRRLOCK!"  
>John woke up, sweating profusely.<p>

The nightmares where back again except that they were not. Earlier, he could see his army friends dying and calling out for him while he could do nothing to save them.

Now, it was just his best friend's broken body and all he could hear was,"_**Goodbye,John**_".(2)

He never called for help or anything, yet John still had that feeling that if he could reach Sherlock, he could save him and get him back.

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><p>"<em><strong>...But I don't even know if I believe it when I'm saying that..."<br>**_

Sherlock always convinced himself that when he went back, John would welcome him back with open arms. Lestrade would give a warm handshake and maybe for something, he would able to store bloody specimens on the fridge again, because everyone would be so happy to see him again and would agree to his wishes till a certain period of time. The joys of exploiting human emotion, he thought as he smirked to himself. But the doubt would float in again and again.

What if everyone had moved on?

What if no one cared for him anymore by the time he returned?

_What if he never did return?_

No. NO.

Without you, life **is **standstill.

They **need** you.

You **will** return.

There was little to do, other than convince himself.

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><p>"<em><strong>...I don't think you realize what you mean to me, not the slightest clue<br>'Cause me and you were like a crew  
>I was like your sidekick, you gon' either wanna fight..."<br>**_

John sat on the chair, while _the chair,_ remained empty in front of him even though every other one was occupied. It seemed everyone had the sense to leave _that_ chair alone.

"John, dear,you look quite ill, you've been cooped up here for so long, it won't do you any good." Mrs. Hudson looked concerned, as she patted his back.

"I must agree with Mrs. Hudson. John Watson, you must go on a vacation... of sorts. If you want, I can get Anthea to arrange it all for you." Mycroft appeared to look like he cared, but John knew more. That sod couldn't wait to get rid of John. He seemed to be like a liability to Mycroft which the older man obviously didn't want.

"What they mean is that, John you can't stay here for the rest of your life, thinking about how it might have been Sherlock had still lived. He's dead and gone, "Mrs. Hudson glared at Lestrade," and the only thing you can do it let him go."

John nodded silently, staring at the mantelpiece. If he had filled up Billy's place in Sherlock's life, Sherlock had filled up that empty void inside of him which felt hollow again. Running next to him at night, with his coat flapping behind him and his tousled mane of hair bouncing around, John had felt like had found his place in the world again. He was a part of it once more. The consulting detective had meant more to John than a simple flatmate and friend. He was his anchor.

But John said nothing. He just nodded and politely declined Mycroft's offer. He told Mrs. Hudson that he would be moving out in a week.

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><p>"<em><strong>...Can't make a decision, you keep questioning yourself<br>Second guessing and it's almost like you're begging for my help  
>Like I'm your leader, you're supposed to fucking be my mentor<br>I can endure no more, I demand you remember who you are..."**_

"_**John... John! You are amazing, you are fantastic!"**_

"_**Yes, alright. Don't overdo it."**_

"_**You may never have been the most luminous of people**__** but as a **_**conductor of light**_**, you are unbeatable**__."(3)_

Memories.

That's all he had.

Memories and the bloody nightmares.

He wondered what Sherlock would say if he saw him now. Probably, not a conductor of light. When he was a little boy, he always imagined that he would rescue the damsel in distress and both of them would ride off in the sunset. He would be the glorious knight in shining armour, always there to save the day.

He had always suspected that the impression of the "knight" in his childhood was a contributing factor to him joining the army. But never had he imagined his end to be such a pitiful one. A bullet to the shoulder had him discharged. Every night he dreamt of the battlefield and felt alive but when he woke up it felt like the bullet had never left.

Then suddenly one day there was this man.

He had been so clueless about his place in the world but Sherlock had made John his conductor of light. Cheesy as it may sound, John got to be a knight again.

But he is lost now. Again.

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><p>"<em><strong>...It was you who believed in me..."<strong>_

In spite what Donovan had said, John still had believed him.

In spite what Moriarty had done, John had still believed him.

He needed John to believe in him again.

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><p>"<em><strong>...You risked your career for me, I know it as well as you..."<strong>_

John hadn't even known him back then, yet he had bothered to look for Sherlock when he had disappeared.

He had shot a man for him and when asked, his reason? **"**_**He wasn't a very nice man**__."(4)_

John had become Sherlock's moral compass and conductor of light.

He still was. The compass guiding him back home.

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><p>"<em><strong>...It literally feels like a lifetime ago<br>But I still remember the shit like it was just yesterday though  
>You walked in, yellow jumpsuit, whole room, cracked jokes<br>But once you got inside the booth, told you like smoke..."**_

John remembered the first time he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock remembered the first time he saw what will matter most to him.

He had been observing something in the microscope. John wouldn't have known at that moment that this man was one day going to be the epicentre of his tremulous life.

Sherlock had only asked for John's phone. He never knew that John would give him something he never had before. A friend.

John remembered the first time in months he had left his cane, in Angelo's booth. Only because of Sherlock.

Sherlock remembers the first time someone willingly followed without question.

Both of them remember all of it.

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><p><strong>One and a half year later<strong>

John had woke up the same, gone to work and came back to his old small flat to find that he had no food left. Sighing in exhausted, he put on his jacket again and decided to go to Angelo's. Although it was about closing time, he hoped that the man would be a little late in closing. John would've run but the cane had come back and since he didn't want to waste any money on a cab, he walked instead. Luckily for John, Angelo was still there even though all the people had left.

"Hello there, John. Same as usual?"

John nodded, taking his seat in the booth near the window. He was glancing outside the window, into a somewhat empty street. Suddenly, he felt someone gently trying to pry out the cane he had been clutching tightly in his hand.

"You won't be needing that anymore, John Watson."

"You're late, Sherlock Holmes."

"There has to be a first time for everything, John."

"_**...I'm about to lose my mind  
>You've been gone for so long, I'm running out of time<br>I need a doctor, call me a doctor  
>I need a doctor, doctor to bring me back to life..."<strong>_

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><p><strong>You are here,huh? Awesome. Now just click that cute little button of review and you will get HUGS AND CHOCOLATES AND RAINBOWS AND PONIES!<br>**

**Sherlock:*rolls eyes* Trolling, are we?  
>Me:*evil smile* They will NEVER get those stuff *superevilamazingevillaugh*<br>John:I think we should hug them, Sherlock. Those poor readers deserve something if they managed to go through all that terrible writing.**

**Me: Hey!**

**Sherlock: I don't hug people, John. I hug you.  
>John: No, you kiss me. Now let's go and hug them!<br>Sherlock:  
>John:*puppy dog eyes* Pleaseeeeeee?<br>Sherlock:*sighs* Fine, let's go.  
><strong>

**Me:*fangirl voice* JAWNLOCK!  
><strong>

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><p><strong>(1) From the Reichenbach Fall<br>(2)Again from the Reichenbach fall  
>(3) The Hounds of Baskerville<br>(4)The Study in PinK  
>Anyways, review and tell me how you liked it. Before you know it, Johnny boy and Sherly will be hugging you to death! :P<strong>(1


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